XI

My Trolley hikes to Harlem p. d. q.,

And picks up pikers all along the beat.

At six o'clock the aisles are full of feet,

The straps with fingers, and the entire zoo

Boils on the platform with a mad huroo

Reckless as Bronx mosquitoes after meat.

The widow stands, the fat man gets the seat

And Satan smiles like Foxy M. Depew.

And as we hikes along I thinks, thinks I,

“The human race is like the ocean foam,

Roaring and discontented, peevish, fly - "

Say, why in blazes do n't they stay to home?

This travel-sickness is a danger which

Keeps hoboes poor and corporations rich.